


Spoonful of Sugar

by crabapplered



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Body Modification, Brotherhood: Final Fantasy XV, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Porn Logic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-09-27 06:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20403280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabapplered/pseuds/crabapplered
Summary: The duties of a prince are a bitter draught. Ignis works to sweeten it.





	1. Chapter 1

Noctis has been restless all night.

Getting him to do homework is always a struggle, but tonight has been especially bad, with Noctis staring blankly at the algebraic equations and drifting off time and again into dark reverie.

Ignis has had to lure him back with firm words and gentle touch. Banter with politicians is nothing to negotiating with Noctis when he's at his most sullen. Ignis has to be careful, always careful not to push too hard, not to demand too much, and most importantly, not to let Noctis realize how hard Ignis is working at this, Noctis being touchy in the way only teenagers can manage, demanding to have their minds read while resenting the intrusion into their privacy.

At this point Ignis is a mess of little aches. A sore throat from his flow of gentle words. A sore back from keeping his shoulders from drooping with fatigue. A sore head, from concentrating on reading every sigh, every flicker of dark blue eyes.

A sore heart, because he knows something is wrong with Noctis but Ignis doesn't know _what_, and nothing he does or says seems to reach through that emotional fog to guide Noctis back to the world outside his own head.

"Noct? Think you can finish this last one up? You'll be halfway done and we can break for supper."

". . . halfway done," mumbles Noctis. A crease forms between his eyebrows and it's honestly the best thing Ignis has seen all night: the first sign of a crack in Noct's armour of dreamy apathy.

"That's right. It'll be all down hill from there."

No reaction.

"It'll go faster," Ignis tries. "You'll see. You'll have momentum with you, all the more so for how much you've already done." He thumbs the pages of the history essay he's been proof reading. "You've worked so hard. It would be a shame to leave it unfinished."

The crease deepens, Noct's eyebrows dipping down in the shadow of a scowl. His eyes narrow, his lips part, and he breathes a soft, "Lame."

Ignis' spine stiffens. It's been months since Noctis has actively rebelled against the value of-

"I never realized how _lame_ it is to leave things half-done. You come all that way, you go that far, and then, what, you give up because you got scared? Because your parents _maybe_ finding out you got one nipple pierced somehow is less bad than them finding out you got both done?"

All of Ignis' carefully constructed scenarios, his stress, his worries and his fears. "Noct . . ."

"So you back out and then you're left looking like an- an_ asymmetrical dumbass_ because you couldn't commit. Great job!"

The hours of strained silence. The careful weighing of encouragement versus goading versus outright bribes. "_Noct . . ._"

"And then. And then! You come to school and show. it. off. Like it's something to be proud of and not, you know. A total failure to finish what you started."

Ignis sucks in air through his teeth, feeding the fire in his belly and licking at his throat. He's more than ready to burn through all of Noctis' attitude and bring him back to doing actual, important work, when Noct snarls,

_"Some of us never even get the chance to try!_"

The abrupt swerve throws Ignis into a tailspin and has him choking on his own outrage, leaves him braced against the dinning room table, his nails leaving crescents in the finish. He fights to maintain his professional front, scrambles to find something to say because what Noct has suddenly vomited out speaks of a much larger issue, and to leave it hanging would be to invite Noctis to swallow it back down, but all Ignis can think to say is,

"I didn't realize you were interested in getting pierced."

"I'm _not_," groans Noctis. He slumps in his chair, head hanging over the back. The pale line of his neck is a beautiful arch that trembles as he works to get out the words, "It's just- you remember that magazine spread? About Gladio's tattoo, and the Crownsguard, and how most of them have stuff like that?"

It would be hard to forget. Gladio's spectacular eagle had only just been finished, and he hadn't been shy about showing it off. A reporter had dug into the matter, curious as to why Clarus hadn't been outraged at his son's lurid ornamentation, only to discover the hidden side of the Crownsguard: with such body-covering uniforms and a life so stripped of personal possessions, many Crownsguard chose to ornament their bodies as a form of personal expression. Tattoos and piercings, sometimes symbolic, sometimes artistic, sometimes a record of friends lost and battles won, all kept discreetly hidden by uniform and armour.

It had sparked a flurry of interest in the public. A fortuitous military victory in Cleigne had fanned the flames. And now, it seemed, the idea was catching hold in the younger generation.

"So, there's these two girls in my class, Liselotte and Cascasette, and they're best friends, right? So they got matching tattoos. On their ankles. These tiny things about the size of a dime, you can't even tell what they're supposed to be. They might as well be bug bites. Stupid, right?

"But everyone in class acted super impressed, like it was some big deal, like they were patriotic idols 'supporting the troops,' totally badass for getting something you can hide with a sock. They all started talking and bragging and egging each other on, until finally Felix said he'd get his nipples pierced. He is," Noct spits, "_such_ a showoff. The worst kind, who can't stop himself from trying to one-up people, except he hasn't got any guts so he always fails at the end."

"Can't stick his landings," offers Ignis. His mouth is still on autopilot as his brain scrambles for an analysis of this turn of conversation.

"Exactly!" Noctis jerks upright, pinning Ignis with an angry stare and pointing fingers. "He half-asses everything 'cuz he gets scared at the last minute. So this time he literally half-asses it, and only gets half his nipples done. Which, like I said: _lame_. And that should be all. It's just a bunch of kids messing around. There's no reason for me to keep thinking about it, but-"

Noctis' hands grip the air as if to wrestle his thoughts into words. "I keep thinking about Gladio yelling at me for 'not following through' and 'wasting his time'—"

Ignis silently vows to poison Gladio at the next opportunity.

"—and wondering if this is what he meant. And then I wonder, if it was me, would I have done just as crappy a job? Gotten a shitty tattoo? Backed out on the piercing? And _then_—" The words are coming even slower now, their jagged edges ripping up Noct's throat and leaving his voice raw and broken and bleeding anguish. "Then I remember that it doesn't matter because I'll never know. Because I can't know. Because- because if I did I'd be _defacing Crown Property_."

Those pale hands convulse, snap shut, finally catching hold of the pain that's been plaguing Noctis all night, knuckles going white, white as he tries to strangle it. "It's not that I _want_ to," Noctis finishes in a mangled whisper. "It's that I_ can't_."

Noctis' body gives out with his voice. He slumps forward onto the table, face down on the glossy walnut, his passion burnt out and his skin left ashy, his shoulders bowed. Utterly crushed by the weight of his own existence.

Because 'freedom' is ultimately defined by 'rules'. Like the lines in a picture book, you are 'free' to use any colour you like as long as you stay within the guidelines.

The lines drawn for a prince's life are very, very narrow, a rigid pattern of responsibilities and duties and traditions and dignities that sketch out an endless series of prison bars. And in many ways, Ignis is Noctis' most dutiful gaoler, endlessly herding him back between the lines, a sad irony to how badly Ignis wants to set him free.

Ignis still remembers the Noctis from before the Marilith attack, before the realities of a royal life were carved into Noctis' flesh in six inch parallel gashes. The bright soul who smiled and played and laughed, who looked up at the stars and saw endless possibilities to reach for instead of a world forever denied to him. Ignis remembers, and he aches, and he would do anything, anything at all to give Noctis a bare breath of freedom more.

Anything, except allow Noctis to leave his cage of duty.

_If only I could take more of your burden. If only I could do more, be more for you. If only I could somehow-_

"-take your place." The words come out slow and halting, an idea half-formed that Ignis shapes even as it stumbles off his tongue. "I could . . . take your place."

Noctis' head snaps up. "Take my 'place'?!"

"Not- not as the Prince, of course," Ignis rushes to say, flushing at his accidental presumption. "I simply meant- If there's something you want- something you _need_ to try so badly, I could- it wouldn't be the same, of course, but-"

Noctis' eyes are widening at every word, the heat of his wild, disbelieving stare searing into Ignis' face and setting him aflame with embarrassment but Noctis is _sitting up in his chair_, his back straightening and the spark returning to his gaze and a flush to his cheeks and Ignis stumbles onward, desperately reaching for whatever he needs to say, whatever he needs to do to fan those embers to life and bring Noct _back_.

"-but I would be more than happy-" Elated. Ecstatic. Euphoric. "-to do whatever you wish to try. And- and then . . . tell you about it?"

Noctis licks his lips, like he's tasting the idea. "You mean you'd, what? Get your nipples pierced? Because I'm _curious_?!" His voice stars to rise, his face twist. "If this is some sort of weird thing because of your job-"

"My job?!" snaps Ignis, indignant and too raw, too open to stop himself from lashing out. "You think I would do this simply because of a job? I'll remind you I also happen to have duties to the Council, and you don't see me offering to get pierced for the sake of Baron Erucius!"

The jab gets right through Noctis' guard and punches a laugh out of him. It's more breathless gasping and hiccups than anything else, but it brings a smile with it, and the light in Noctis' eyes is back and glittering. "Is he still after you to do his finance spreadsheets again?"

"Only every time he manages to corner me in a moment of privacy. The man is relentless. One favour, and suddenly he thinks I'm available for his every request and whim."

"But you are for me."

"Of course," says Ignis, and frowns. Has he done something to make Noct doubt him? Immediately he reassures, "Anything you need, Noct."

Noctis' lips part but only silence comes out. His night-sky coloured eyes, full of thoughts as distant as stars, slide their gaze sideways. Flicker back to Ignis, then down, to stare into depths only Noctis can view.

The crease is back between his eyebrows.

Finally, words surface from the mire of his thoughts: ". . . you don't have to. It's- I mean, I shouldn't even be into it, this-" he practically spits out the quotations marks, "-this 'petty civilian fad.' Something dumb rich kids do because they think it's cool and not because they really understand what it's like to- to risk your skin and want to celebrate being in one piece. Me copying them copying the Crownsguard . . . really not good for the whole 'respect the troops at the front' thing," he says, waving a hand as if to shoo the entire topic away.

Ignis doesn't so much as twitch an eyebrow at the answer, but inside he's seething. The duty to maintain the Crown's image is one thing. This nonsense about Noctis being a third-hand copy-cat and behaving disrespectfully toward the Crownsguard is quite another.

If anyone has the right to celebrate coming back whole in the face of violence it's the Prince who survived the brutal assassination attempt that left him in a gods-bedamned wheelchair at the age of eight, and if Ignis ever discovers who said otherwise he'll be sure to make that point very clear. Possibly by putting _them_ in a wheelchair.

_Acting as if the scars on his back aren't war wounds. He's been marked in service to his country, and if there was any real justice he'd be able to mark himself up as he pleases to compensate._

There isn't and he can't.

But Ignis can.

And never in that entire rambling dismissal did Noctis actually say 'No, I don't want you to.'

Which is why, when Ignis answers, all he says is, "I see."


	2. Chapter 2

Ignis takes his time with the idea of getting pierced, turning it over in mental hands, exploring it with the fingertips of his imagination and his intellect, not because he has doubts, but because he wants to do this properly.

Though long aware of the Crownsguard tradition of ornamentation thanks to his association with Gladio, it's never been something he's considered for himself, even after becoming a cadet. His body is a tool, one he is carefully honing so it will perform on demand, so it will be sleek and deadly as one of his daggers, as faithful in its service to him as he is to Noctis. More than that hadn't seemed worth the effort when Ignis has to serve on the Council as well, with all its ancient politicos and their conservative mores, so he'd let his personal style languish in the button downs and vests favoured by the Crown's domestic staff, unobtrusive and unoffensive.

_And unhelpful for knowing how to go about this._

In the evenings he scrolls through articles and photos online, a parade of humans made colourful as daggerquills. He sees beads and rings of silver or gold, tiny gems and lengths of chain. Implanted horns, laceworks of scars, tattoos like watercolours, like tapestries, like bloody handprints and flowers left on graves.

After his evening shower he sits on his bed, naked and still damp, and tries to imagine himself embroidered like a fine gown. Ridiculous.

He touches his nipples. The articles he's read say it's one of the more painful piercings to get. If so, then he can well imagine why a teen boy might chose to back down halfway, especially with no better motivation than an urge to grandstand.

Ignis pinches his nipples a little, rolls them between thumb and forefinger, frowning. They aren't particularly sensitive. A good thing, he decides. It'll make it easier to carry this through. Not that mere pain would deter him when the potential reward is that spark of life returning to Noctis' eyes, the glint of delight Ignis remembers so well from their childhood adventures when Ignis had snuck him out to see the stars, when he had gifted Noctis those forbidden brandy-cherry chocolates filched from the royal kitchens, when he'd found a box of kittens and smuggled them into Noctis' room, when he'd been able to _make Noctis happy-_

Pleasure, sudden and sweet, like the burst of juice from a ripe fruit. It drips from between his fingers, from his nipples gone hard and hot, down his chest and the ripple of his abdominals to pool in his groin. His breath catches in his throat. He bites his lip and, shuddering, pulls his hands away, vaguely ashamed at having indulged in self-pleasure when he should be focusing on the task at hand.

_I suppose persistence is enough to make up for the lack of sensitivity_, he thinks ruefully, a little surprised by his sudden reaction. He gives his taut nipples a last, tentative poke, and shivers as his cock stirs. Well, never mind. He'll be careful not to overstimulate himself again and make this into something it isn't.

_Now, what jewelry would Noctis have chosen-?_

~

He gets the piercings done in the morning, after dropping Noctis off at school. He's chosen a specialized clinic, sleek and modern and tucked in between a gynaecologist's and an upscale hair salon, hinting at the mistresses of the powerful that make up the majority of its clientele. The place is ideal, concerned firstly with cleanliness, second with discretion, and third with efficiency. Within three minutes of Ignis pushing open the glass doors he's lead into the back office, seated in a comfortable reclining chair, and asked to remove his shirt.

The technician is an elderly woman with a cloud of white hair barely kept in check by a faded paisley bandanna. She squints at him, her eyes disappearing in her web of wrinkles, her mouth tilting into a pensive slash. "You're symmetrical. That's good. You wanted the bars with the skull end caps, right? To go with your charm."

"Yes, thank you."

The snap of latex gloves. The cool wash of antiseptic. The delicate press of a pen as guides are drawn, and then the clamp traps his right nipple.

"Take a breath," she tells him, and he obediently sucks in air.

The pain of the needle sliding through his flesh cuts through the layers of professional atmosphere and digs into the animal side of him, lighting up his nerves from nape to toes and leaving him lightheaded with the sudden rush of adrenaline. He hisses softy through clenched teeth. Bites his lip and forces himself still.

She grunts approval and moves onto the second one.

By the time she's done he feels like he's slipped an inch sideways out of his skin. His chest throbs with each beat of his heart, and his nipples are hard and they hurt and they're strangely heavy, a weight to breathe against.

"Gonna pass out?" asks the tech, and when he shakes his head she starts clearing her things. Absently jabs her thumb at the mirror on the side wall. "Take a look."

What he sees is this:

Himself, shirtless, face flushed and eyes wide and so very dark, the green all but eclipsed by the black of his pupils. Lip swollen and tender from the press of his teeth. The sweat at his temples darkens his hair, beads at his nape and slides down spine and he shivers, then gasps at the strange shift in his pecs. His chest heaves. Silver glints at his nipples-

Those little nubs have darkened from pink to deep rose and have started to swell and they're trapped between silver skulls, between the mark of his liege lords, between the symbol Noctis hung from Ignis' neck so long ago when he marked Ignis as his (-his-) friend.

-and the flush on Ignis' face darkens to scarlet and blazes down his throat to spill over his collarbones and wash across his chest, bringing the glint of silver into bright contrast because the nipples are an erogenous zone and this is all reflex but his budding erection is damnably awkward!

_Just a reflex_, he tells himself again, and lifts his chin, turns to meet the technician's gaze and flatters himself that he manages to look unashamed.

Her laughter is a low, gentle chortle. "Nice to see you like them. Don't get enough boys here. You're a Crownsguard cadet, right? Have to be with all that muscle and wearing the royal skulls."

"Yes."

"Don't use any of your fancy curatives for a few days. Let the natural healing take hold first or you'll risk keloids."

He leaves with a bottle of antiseptic, a pamphlet of advice, and a head full of expectations for a quick and simple recovery.

~

Soon after the initial rush of accomplishment fades, Ignis realizes his plan has a crucial flaw: he has no idea how to tell Noctis. Intimate as it is, borderline presumptive as he's been to have this done in Noctis' place, it isn't exactly something Ignis can casually mention as he serves dinner.

He sits in his office and compounds foolishness with sloth by ignoring the reports on Glaive equipment costs in favour of thrashing his ego with the barbed length of his own wit.

_Were you going to add it to the report on Council matters during the car ride back from his school, or simply rip open your shirt after dessert and display your bosom like one of the heroes on the covers of Gladio's dreadful romances?_

The shame of having allowed himself to get carried away to the point of forgetting the crucial detail of how to achieve completion of this so-brilliant plan makes him _burn_, a painful flush across his nose and cheeks and the back of his neck, makes his pulse roar in his ears and dear gods, he can _feel it in his chest_, in his abused nipples.

Already swollen from the piercings, they feel too-hot, too-hard, throbbing with every beat of his heart and it's as if Noctis himself is here, pinching and twisting, punishing Ignis for his arrogance.

Ignis buries his face in his hands. Groans. Does his best to calm his breathing, his heart, because his traitorous body seems to enjoy any kind of stimulation now, his dick tenting his tailored slacks. Another humiliation to add to this farce.

He plants his elbows on his desk and lets his head rest in his palms, spine sagging under the weight of his own idiocy. And for a long moment he seriously considers marching straight over to the bathroom and pulling the damn things out.

_'I never realized how_ lame _it is to leave things half-done.'_

Chains couldn't have shackled his hands more effectively than that memory. The thought of becoming the object of Noctis' contempt makes Ignis break out in a cold sweat, nausea roiling about in his stomach. It doesn't even matter if Noctis never finds out about this absurd venture; _Ignis_ will know, and the shame of failing to live up to Noctis' standards will eat at him from the inside like a parasite.

_It won't come to that_, he reassures himself._ I'll figure out how to tell him soon. As for this blasted erotic reflex to the stimulation, it's probably just the pain making my- my chest more sensitive. Two more days and I can take a potion and it will fade._

Until then there's nothing to do but grit his teeth and bare it.

Thankfully, he did have the sense to plan for complications from this little stunt. He already cancelled his Glaive training and has no meetings he needs to attend, and so has nothing but paperwork to do. He even chose a day when Noctis is planning on staying out at the arcade with Prompto, so it'll be easy for Ignis to avoid embarrassing himself by dropping in early to make dinner and leaving before Noct gets back.

_At least I'm not a complete incompetent. Now, let's see if I can evolve past the state of animal and ignore these base lusts so as to get some actual work done._

Ignis uncurls himself from his pathetic slump and turns resolutely back to his reports. It's not as easy as he'd like. Typing. Shifting around in his chair. Breathing. Everything seems to make it worse, as if all his nerves have been rerouted directly to his cock via his nipples.

He gets through it with sheer bloody-minded stubbornness. He's endured worse than a persistent erection during his years in service, and he no doubt will again, so there's no excuse to let himself succumb to this.

That's what he tells himself, and by the end of the day he almost believes it. Lightheaded, flushed and his hair damp with sweat, his temper fraying, he decides discretion is the better part of valour and makes use of his status as a servant to commandeer one of the service elevators down to the garage.

The car ride to Noctis' is a little slice of hell, garnished with the honey-sweet pleasure from the rumble of the engine through his body.

Once at the apartment he has to take a moment in the dark and cool of the underground parking lot to wrestle himself back under control. If he shows up looking off from his normal state the doorman might call security, and won't that be a new low. So Ignis busies his mind with plans for what to make for dinner, something easy to reheat and in enough quantity for Prompto should Noctis bring him back for a visit.

_Shredded chicken and cheese wraps. I've still got all that leftover chicken from the soup and I know there's a few packages of corn tortillas in the cupboard. I can bake an entire pile of the things._

For those few, blessed moments, normality returns.

But then he's walking past the doorman and taking the elevator up and then he's in Noctis' apartment. He takes off his shoes. Moves toward the bathroom. And there's the dinning room table.

It brings back the memories of Noctis' anguish, his longings, and Ignis' hand steals up to touch himself as he wonders, _Did I do well? Will this ease your pain? When I show you, will you-_

He jerks his hand away.

_Can you not even make it to the bathroom before feeling yourself up?_ he sneers.

Astrals know that once out of the Citadel he was more than ready to give himself a few minutes of personal attention to calm things down. But now-!

_So obsessed with yourself._

A harsh truth that makes him cringe with shame. As soon as he crossed the threshold his mind had emptied of all thoughts except on his own pleasure. It's pathetic. He's never had this much trouble keeping on task, even in the crushing grip of puberty, and yet a couple of trinkets have him straying into self-absorbed nymphomania.

Bad enough to have neglected his clerical responsibilities all day. Infinitely worse is to be so easily distracted from serving Noctis' needs, and by Ignis' own base urges.

_It seems I still have much to learn about duty before pleasure. Very well. No time like the present to start._

With that in mind he changes course and marches into the kitchen to make dinner, erection be dammed, and just to grind the lesson home harder decides to make three varieties of wraps - spicy with blue cheese, bacon and cream cheese, sun-dried tomato and garlic. He gets the oven pre-heating, strips off his vest and ties on his apron, rolls up his sleeves and sets to cooking with a will: chopping, slicing, shredding, seasoning. Focuses on his knife work as he hasn't had to in years, determined not to lose himself in the rising haze of pleasure and slice off a finger.

He can't stop his body's reactions. But he can, perhaps, retrain his mind so he can stay on track. So when his breathing deepens he forces himself to savour the spice and savoury of the meal he's making. When he spreads his legs and tips his ass back, thrust his chest forward in futile effort to rub against his own shirt he focuses on how it helps him lean over the counter better. When his cock fills and hardens he tells himself it's from the pleasure of having mastered the kitchen.

And it _should_ feel good to do this. This is for Noct, after all, who needs the same careful tending as a mountain orchid. So delicate, so prone to wilting if the environment isn't quite right.

_But when it is, he blooms and blooms . . ._

The peaceful moments when Noctis dozes on the couch, his smile more a shadow and a tilt of the head then anything else, his blue eyes heavy lidded and vague, the city skyline black and gold and glittering in the night outside. When Ignis brings over a mug of sweetened tea and his latest attempt at pastries, and Noct will glance up and murmur welcome and in that moment there's only the two of them and the quiet and the dark and Ignis has to set the knife aside and brace himself on the counter that he absolutely will not rut against because he isn't a dog.

When he calms down enough he fills the tortillas and rolls them and they are _distressingly_ phallic.

He thrusts the baking sheets into the oven and slams shut the door. Laundry. He has laundry to do.

He stubbornly ignores how obvious his erection is once he takes off the apron.

Then he stalks about the apartment retrieving lost socks left crammed into shoes at the entry way or discarded under chairs, rescues t-shirts from the corners of the living room. A pair of jeans have built themselves a nest of dust under the sofa in the two days it's been since Ignis last cleaned. But just as he's picking up speed he's confronted with the need to fetch the laundry hamper in Noctis' room and Ignis finds he can't, he simply can't go into Noctis' room with an erection. The thought of violating the privacy of that space when Ignis is aroused and animal is repulsive.

_He's not here! He'll never know!_ Ignis tells himself and that makes it sound so sordid, like Ignis is sneaking in to sate some selfish craving at Noctis' expense when all Ignis really craves is to clean those sheets. _It's been a week. You_ know _he eats in bed_.

Crackers and toast and chips and a thousand other carbohydrates that get crumbs everywhere, in the bedding and the sheets and on the floor, in the pillowcase and across Noctis' lips and face, salt glittering on the curve of his lower lip until he swipes it clean with his pink cat-tongue, then quick kitten licks to clean his fingers as he glares challengingly at Ignis, haughty and proud of his mess, pleased, even smug in the knowledge that Ignis will always sigh surrender to this latest outrage and then clean it all away. Always, always, always.

Because the reward is Noctis curled into a duvet the colour of storm clouds, his dark hair feathering across the pillow, the steel wires of strain finally easing their pull on his shoulders and neck as dreams wash away the cares of the day. He naps everywhere because he sleeps poorly. He sleeps even worse in stale sheets littered with itchy crumbs. Ashy circles under eyes gone the flat, dead blue of bottle glass. Slumping over sideways under the weight of his own existence, with his soft voice worn to a thready groan.

Unacceptable.

Ignis steps into the room. His head is bowed and his cheeks are flushed with humiliation that he should be brought to this but he will do his job come hell or high water or hormones.

_Re-channel it. Take pleasure in your duties_, he reminds himself.

And that becomes easy, so easy when every step jostles his cock and makes it ache in sweet torment, and when bending over the bed shifts his trousers to tighten them on his hips and ass and around his crotch. Jerking the sheets from the bed and bundling them up works his arms, his chest, teasing his nipples gone so hard by now they hurt.

Everything dumped into the laundry hamper. He picks it up and cradles the weight of it close and staggers and a sudden shudder goes through his frame. Everything is so heightened right now, his body keyed up to every shift of fabric, every sound and sight and smell, and the laundry bundled in the hamper reeks, yes, but it's the sharp sweat and faded soap and earthy musk of Noctis. Held like this, the hamper presses against his cock, against his breast, with his senses addled and that scent . . . for a moment it's like he's holding Noctis in his arms again as he hasn't since Noctis declared he was too old for bed sharing.

_Noct-!_

Such a cruel thing, to want to hold close a soul who craves freedom.

_Enough indulgence. You're letting yourself become tangled in your own desire again._

He strides into the bathroom and dumps everything into the washing machine. The thing turns out to be a treacherous beast, its vibrations tantalizingly seductive when he makes the mistake of leaning against it on start up, and he can't stop himself from the first few thrusts. Tips his head back and moans in a long ribbon of sound that goes on and on, fluttering as the vibrations crawl through his body, the metal growing warm against him as the machine fills with hot water. He's only saved from disgrace by the half-time alarm on the stove. Lurches away into the kitchen, his hands clenched around his biceps to keep from pawing at himself.

When he comes back to the bathroom he puts himself on his hands and knees and sets to scrubbing the floor in penance. The tile is hard and cold and unforgiving, quickly adding aching pain in his legs to the cacophony in his body, forcing him to tip forward, ass in the air as he tries to put more weight on his hands. It doesn't help- _nothing helps_ -as the blood rushing to his head makes him hot and dizzy, and each scrub at the floor jerks his shirt and his chest and the invisible chains that connect his dick to those twin torments piercing his flesh.

He's sweating and whimpering and enjoying washing the floor more than is decent and he hates every moment of it. He tosses aside the scrub brush and bites his lip savagely to blood, rakes his fingers through his hair and pulls, but none of these little torments do a damn thing to cool the heat between his legs. He's pounding his fists on the floor when the washing machine dings, and then he's forced to stand and move as he transfers the laundry to the drier and gods, his cock and nipples are bad enough, but the tight cut of his trousers are making him embarrassingly aware of his own ass every time he bends over.

By the time the laundry is loaded he's eyeing the shower with serious intent, fantasizing about stepping in fulling clothed and simply drenching himself with icy water in a desperate attempt to quench-

"Ignis? You in here?"

Noctis.

Noctis is home.

A wave of shame that Ignis allowed himself to lose track of time so badly, then a dragging undertow of chores left unfinished and duties unmet. It draws Ignis down into a dizzying whirlpool of self-directed scorn and half-formed excuses before it all comes crashing to a halt at the thought lurching to the surface of Ignis' brain like a red giant heaving itself up through the ground:_ I need to go greet him_.

Because a good servant does not lurk in the shadows like a bad memory. A good servant greets his master at the door, and though today has been a list of failures Ignis can still do this much, can't he? Can't he?!

With his mind so full of noise and fog it's all he can do to keep the idea in his head. He stumbles out of the bathroom, past the kitchen, comes to stand in the entrance way where Noctis and Prompto are just now toeing off their shoes, leaning on each other for balance as they compare something on their phone screens.

All of the composure has leaked out of Ignis' voice, behind nothing but raw dregs of noise with which to croak, "welcome home, your _hi_ghness." His voice breaks on the edge of Noctis' title. He winces and hates himself a little more. This is completely unworthy of his training.

He feels even worse when Noctis first stills at the sound, then snaps his head up to pin Ignis in place with a startled gaze and Ignis must look as bad as he sounds because Noct's eyes begin to get wider, wider still, his mouth dropping open in horror, and then Prompto notices something off and glances up and now there's two pairs of wide blue eyes raking over Ignis and taking in his ruined self.

Sweet Astrals, he really _must_ look a horror to keep them goggling like this, and it's only now that he realizes how _indecent_ he must seen, hair a wreck and shirt sticking to him with sweat and damp from washing the floor and in these tight trousers it's impossible to miss his shame. He wishes he'd had the presence of mind to bring a towel or some such to shield himself with but it's too late now because Prompto responds with the reflex of any good photographer and lifts his phone to take a shot of this disaster.

A flush spills across Ignis' face in a hot wash of scarlet, over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose to drip down his throat in blazing rivulets. He bites his lip again to keep from making excuses. Squirms and shies away as Prompto starts taking more pictures to commemorate Ignis' failure, the snaps of the shutter coming fast and sharp, like the flurry of a startled bird's wing beats.

And in this stillness, this awful moment when the three of them stand trapped, the only movement is Noctis' hand. Slowly, slowly rising, until it settles on Prompto's wrist.

Prompto starts. Shakes himself, blinking as if waking from a dream, and then yips and flinches and almost drops his phone.

His flailing seems to jar Noctis loose from this mire in time. He tightens his grip on Prompto's wrist, uses the hold to spin his friend around, and with his free hand opens the apartment door. Then he's shoving Prompto out and tossing his shoes after him, muttering something about texting later tonight.

He shuts the door.

He stands with hands braced against it, head bowed, and takes a deep breath. When he turns around it's with flushed cheeks and a determined set to his jaw. Ignis steels himself for the rebuke at having dared to present himself to his Prince in such a state and embarrassed him in front of a guest, but instead Noctis stammers, "Specs, you- you, uh . . . wanna sit down?"

Ignis opens his mouth to say- to say _something_. Apologies. Reassurances. Something soothing to wash the concern from Noctis' face. But instead the only thing he can manage is a low, pleading whimper that goes on and on and on, even when he barricades his mouth with both hands.

"Right. You're sitting down."

And oh, Noctis' hands are so gentle on Ignis, pulling on his wrists so he can take Ignis by the hand, cold fingers a blessing against Ignis' blazing skin. He guides them both into the living room with Ignis dropping whimpers like spare change in a trail behind them. His cock is still hard, his trousers too tight, and every step a glorious agony. Why? _Why?!_ What has gone wrong is his body that his cock is still hard through this nightmare?!

He's still fumbling for an answer when Noctis pulls out one of the dinning room chairs and pushes Ignis down onto it. "Be right back."

Without him, Ignis drifts, unmoored, in the ocean of his own confused misery. Comes back to himself when Noctis presses a glass of water into his hands, coaxes him to drink. It's rough going when Ignis' hands are trembling like this, droplets spattering on his cheeks, but it's fresh and cold and the shock of it clears enough of the fog in his head that when he comes up for air he can finally gasp, "I'm _sorry._"

"Specs, you don't-"

"_I'm sorry_," he insists. "I've made a complete disgrace of myself -and a disgrace of _you_ in turn- by presenting myself in such a state while Prompto was here and I've really no defence and_ I'm sorry_." He stares morosely into the depths of his cup. They say you can drown in an inch of water. Perhaps if Ignis tries hard he can redeem himself with a swift suicide. Regretfully he adds, almost to himself, "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

Noctis' words are stilted, careful. ". . . by 'supposed to,' do you mean that you, uh. _Planned_ this?"

"It was going to be a surprise."

". . . it was definitely that."

"A _nice_ surprise," says Ignis, glaring at the reflection of himself in the water. "A- a _gesture of affection_. Something to cheer you up a bit. But instead I've gone and made it _sordid_."

He can sense more than see Noctis' wince. "Specs, no. It wasn't- it wasn't bad."

"Indeed, 'bad' is a gross understatement. 'A degrading embarrassment to my post' is much more accurate. Your father should fire me. You should fire me. I should fire me," he continues miserably. He sets the glass on the table. "What use am I to you if something so minor as physical distraction can ruin me like this? It's not like they even particularly _hurt_ anymore," he groans, still raging against the unfairness. "I could accept that! But instead I'm left with this _blasted_ sensitivity and I can't- I can't-" He squirms in his seat feeling the heat rise again and the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, "-can't ignore this pleasure. It's like I'm some sort of beast-"

"Wait."

Ignis' throat swallows any further words.

"Stop."

Ignis goes utterly still in his chair.

"Go back," says Noctis. "What do you mean, 'they don't hurt'. What doesn't hurt?"

And now Ignis has to actually _tell_ him. "You didn't say I shouldn't," he hedges first, so weak to the fear of having overstepped, and peers up at Noctis from beneath lowered lashes. He bites his lip a moment, drops his gaze. "And it seemed such a small thing. Things."

Noctis sucks in air through his teeth. "Ignis . . . "

"And I truly _did_ intend it as a gesture of affection and not obligation. And not this, this perverse- If I had known- the information sites I found spoke of increased sensitivity but I didn't think it was going to be like this-"

"You really did it," breathes Noctis. "You got your nipples pierced."

Ignis flinches. "I'm _sorry_."

Though neither of them say anything in the moment that follows, it is hardly silent, Ignis drowning in the roar of his own heartbeat and the rasping of his breath, the soft whimpers that leak out past his gritted teeth. He's so hot he imagines he can hear the sweat sizzling on his flushed skin. Licks his lips and tastes the salt of it.

It takes him far too long to muster the courage to look up at Noctis once more. But when he does . . . when he does . . .

It's the eyes that get him. It always is. Those incredible eyes, blue like twilight and beautiful even when darkened with pain or dulled by apathy, are now wide and brilliant with the wonder that Ignis had thought Noctis had lost. That unguarded amazement, that bewildered delight: it sends Ignis tumbling back to simpler times. Reminds him of when he brought Noctis a jar of glass marbles, a hoard of colours that blossomed into flowers and swirled with imprisoned stars.

"Can I see them?" asked Noctis. Asks Noctis, the past tumbling together with the present.

Ignis answers as he had then, "Of course. They're yours." And just as he'd poured a cascade of treasure into Noctis' palms in the past, in the present he's already moving Noctis' hands to the buttons of his shirt.

Then he blinks, shakes his head to clear away the echos and tries again, "I mean, they're for you. I- I mean-" he stumbles back into silence, unsure how to explain what had been so simple in his mind.

Thankfully, Noctis seems to know what to do, already working at Ignis' shirt before he's finished speaking. Pale fingers. They're clever with the buttons. It seems barely an instant before they're all undone and Noctis is drawing back the veil of fabric to bare Ignis' chest, his pecs, his nipples flushed deep rose, swollen and hard, the silver skulls on the ends of each post glinting in the low light of the apartment.

Noctis' raw moan of, "_Ignis_," drags a shudder straight from the marrow of Ignis' bones. So literally shaken, he's defenceless against the delighted gaze Noctis stabs him with next. "And you got them both done!"

The last of his propriety bleeds out of him. "Astrals forbid I be an asymmetrical dumbass," he rasps, the death rattle of his professionalism.

Then Noctis grins at him.

Ignis stops thinking. Arguably, stops _being_, his consciousness dissolving in a flood of dopamine. The beating of his heart, so strong it's shaking his frame, fades. The blazing heat of his blush feels suddenly cool, the ache between his legs distant and somehow removed, unimportant before the dazzling miracle of that unguarded smile.

The memories of endless days, as identical as blades of grass, spread out in Ignis' mind in a field of misery. Noctis from morning to evening, his shoulders slumped, his face unchanging, too tired to even manage a frown. Once-bright voice a toneless mutter, once-bright mind turned inward and dark. It was as if the claws that had carved through Noctis' back had severed his ties with the world outside himself, left him drifting further in shadows with ever year, and hurt him so badly he dared not try to find his way back.

The gods knew Ignis had tried to help. Coaxing and spoiling him, sheltering him from as much stress as he could, bribing him with sweets, and once or twice talking himself hoarse, pleading for Noctis to give a damn about his duties, face his fears.

And what had it gotten him? Quiet grunts, screaming fights, the occasional absent thanks. A rare curve of lips, half illusion, and wilted too soon. It has been years, literal _years_, since he's seen Noctis like this, and he hadn't realized how badly he's missed it until now.

So when he sees Noctis' hand reach to touch and then draw back, Noctis' gaze turn aside-

-he's pulling away, he's pulling back into himself, shy about this suddenly, about wanting to touch? Is that what he wants?-

-_please don't go, don't go, don't leave me again_-

-he can have that, he can have anything he wants, Ignis will find a way, Ignis will _make_ a way-

"I still need to clean them," Ignis blurts.

A desperate grab for Noctis' attention, it catches the edge of his attention, keeps him from sinking back into his shell just long enough for Ignis to mash together the feeblest of excuses.

"I'm not supposed to take a potion for the next few days in order to minimize the possibility of scarring, and until then I'm supposed to keep these clean. But I- I don't trust myself-" true, it's all true, even as he uses it to build a lie "-I've. Been so strange. And overwhelmed. I don't know if I'd be able to do it properly."

Blue eyes peer at him sidelong, a shy glace from behind a curtain of shaggy black hair and though it's nothing like the marvel from before maybe. . . maybe. . . .

"Noct. Would you. Would you mind." Ignis can barely hear himself past the thunderous beating of his heart. And gods but he feels raw, defences stripped away entirely as he resorts to begging, to bribery, to a bare step away from prostitution, more than willing to offer his body to Noctis to make him stay close. "Would you help me?"

"_Fu~~ck_," groans Noctis, and lifts his face to Ignis once more, the moon breaking through dark clouds. "Specs. You sure?"

Yes. A thousand times yes. "Please."

Unsteady as Ignis is, he fumbles the connection to the Armiger and has to try a second time to draw out the antiseptic. He had curled the instructional pamphlet around the bottle, and now he presses both into Noctis' hands. He can't resist dragging his index along the inside of Noctis' wrist, hungry for touch, for connection to this Noctis who has drifted back into Ignis' world like an asteroid returned from black depths of space.

And like that wandering star, he's only here through a quirk of gravity, the brief pull of interest in the spectacle Ignis has made of himself. There is no telling how long he'll stay in Ignis' sky.

_A little longer. A little longer, please, just a few moments more._

More, so that Ignis can sit here and drink in the silver-light smile curling at the corner of Noctis' lips, the slight furrow between his brow, the delicate squint to his eyes, all in lines drawn chalk-soft to make a picture of pleasure as he reads through the pamphlet.

He is so very _lovely_ like this.

A beautiful face, yes, he's always got that, and a well-proportioned body that's sleek with muscle. But it's his joy that makes him something more than an fortunate accident of nature, makes him transcend into a phenomena that steals Ignis' breath and has him resenting every beat of his own heart as it mercilessly tracks the seconds passing by, a countdown to Noctis slipping away once again.

Because Noctis won't stay. He won't. He'll grow bored of the novelty. The bother of having to help Ignis clean these ridiculous piercings will grate at his patience. He'll drop everything and slink off back into distance and darkness and to nap on the couch, and Ignis will button up his shirt and go tend to dinner which is, Ignis realizes, still baking in the oven.

And of course the alarm goes off at that precise moment.

Heart in his throat, he glares at the kitchen with hate-laced anguish, knowing that the moment is gone, that his time is up-

Noctis lays a hand on Ignis' shoulder and shoves him back down in his chair. "I got this. I need to get some cotton swabs anyway."

Sheer relief makes Ignis lightheaded, his heart dropping back into his chest to pump his blood in rushing, gushing waves that leave him dizzy and breathless. He has to suck in air in great, open-mouthed gasps. It burns his throat and chest, icy cruel in his overheated lungs, makes his eyes sting with tears, but he just slumps against the chair back and draws in more, as helpless against this bodily need as he's been to all the others today.

And even with the chill in his chest and on his skin from his open shirt he somehow feels too hot. He's sweating again, and his mouth is dry from his panting. He doesn't trust his trembling hands with the water glass. The cool apartment air at least feels nice on his bare chest, delicious on his nipples, and he squirms in his seat in futile attempt to rub himself against nothing.

His eyes fall shut as he chases sensation. His back arches and he can't stop himself from spreading his legs a little, rolling his hips on the hard wooden seat. The chair where Noctis put him.

Low, guttural swearing. Noctis' voice. Ignis opens his eyes, turns his head, twists in his chair, searching. "Noct? Is something-"

"I'm fine," Noctis interrupts. "I'm totally, absolutely fine." He's only a few steps away, his face flushed a deep rose, the colour a striking contrast against the blue of his eyes and the black of his hair.

"You're hot," says Ignis.

". . . _burning_."

Ignis presses a hand to his own forehead, trying to squeeze out some sense. How can Noct be so hot when the apartment is so very cold? Difficult to think past the haze in his brain, each throb of his nipples rattling the last of his reason, so he's forced to temporize with a raspy, "There's still water."

Noctis joins him at the table, setting down the antiseptic and a bag of cotton swabs, pulling out a second chair. "'m not that kind of thirsty." He drags his chair close so when he sits it's with his knees between Ignis' and then he gets comfortable, spreading his legs and forcing Ignis' thighs to part even wider, the position drawing the fabric of Ignis' trousers tight at his crotch in a torturous, pinching squeeze. "Feeling good, Specs?"

Oh gods, there's really no hiding it. "N-Noct . . ."

"Don't worry. I'll be quick so you can go take care of that." He says that but his hands are slow, movement drawn out with exaggerated care as he fishes out a swab. As he uncaps the disinfectant. As he soaks the cotton ball.

Perhaps it's because he's not watching what he's doing. His gaze is firmly on Ignis' face, Astrals know why, his gaze inescapable as Ignis pants and pants and licks his lips, swallows. Bites his lip to brace himself as Noctis finally brings the cotton swab up.

Useless.

The press of it to Ignis' left nipple sends a bolt of frigid lightning lancing through his chest, pinning him in the chair and driving the breath out of him and then it_ keeps going_, the cold and wet tickling him with frost that spreads through his veins and into his cock.

He thrashes on the hard seat of the chair, trying for relief for his dick which _hurts_ and for his chest which _aches_ but he's got no leverage with his legs spread, thighs still pinned open by Noctis' knees, Noctis' hand rubbing the smallest, most wretched little circles with the cotton ball. Horribly gentle, terribly gentle, inescapably gentle, grinding in a pleasure that soaks into Ignis' chest until his entire pectoral throbs with it, every nerve sings with it, until it is an agony that Ignis can barely endure.

"Hang on. Gotta . . . Gotta get around the post."

And with Noctis leaning in so close, watching Ignis, touching Ignis, his attention on him as it hasn't been in years and his fingers working Ignis' nipple and then his hand must slip because he pinches and Ignis-

Ignis comes in his pants with a gasping shout.

And Noctis. Keeps going.

He drags Ignis through the shuddering aftershocks of orgasm, quelling Ignis' feeble protests and thwarting every attempt at escape with his merciless touch, until Ignis is too weak to do more than whimper and let himself be spread even further open, Noctis scooting his chair closer still.

He's close enough that Ignis can hear it when Noctis mutters, "When did you get so _hot?_"

Hot. Heat. Searing flames in his blood and his dick. When did it get this bad? "When I- when I _washed_ the _floor_," he rasps in answer, his voice as seared as the rest of him. And at Noctis' blank look pushes himself to explain, "Down on. Hands and knees. It was-" He gropes for the words but finds himself derailed by Noctis' emphatic,

"_Fuck._"

"Lan- lang- _ngh!_" Whimpers and grunts instead of words because Noctis has pinched him again and it's on purpose, Ignis can see it in the smug little grin Noctis is utterly failing to hide, and all he can manage in return is to tug feebly at Noctis' wrist and moan a begging, "_Noct_."

"Yeah, Specs?" Gods. That lazy, purring voice he only uses when he's exceptionally pleased. The glint of mischief sparkling from under the fan of black lashes.

Ignis weakens further. Lets go.

His hand drops to hang limp at his side. He slumps in the chair, tips his head back to bare his throat in surrender. "Will you. Will you do the other?"

Noctis tosses the used swab onto the table and wets a second with the disinfectant. "Gotta follow through, right?"

"Gladio'd be proud," mutters Ignis. He can smell himself, the musk and tang of sex and sweat, knows that he is a splayed out disaster that will only get worse, his cock throbbing in interest even now in the wet, clinging mess between his legs. The pump of his blood has it swelling in time to the pulsing misery of his left nipple, the hypersensitive tightness of his right. The cold and the raw, awful pleasure is coming, Noctis' _touch_ is coming. _And soon, so will I._

Anticipation has him gripping the chair seat, fingers scrabbling at the wood in search of some kind of anchor while his back arches and thrusts his chest out, his body begging for things Ignis can't even bring himself to think.

"Gladio'd be jealous," says Noctis, low voiced and smug. "Of me seeing you like this, _touching_ you like this." And gods, he fairly slaps the cotton into place, a second harpoon plunged into Ignis' body, ripping from him a wailing,

"_Ah~nnn~~!_"

"Yeah. Like that. Fuck, Specs, you gotta stay like this. You gotta stay someone I can touch."

_You can always touch me_, Ignis wants to say, but his previous daydreams of teasing shoulder checks and friendly handholding have sunk into the roiling lava that's steadily rising in his veins, a slower heat than the inferno that had consumed him all of today but utterly inexorable, setting him alight and filling his brain with images of Noctis touching him like _this_, anytime and anyplace. To have his clothing and his dignity stripped from him, his body plunged into this blaze of pleasure, regardless of where they were and who was watching. To have everyone a witness to what he's done for Noctis and what he's willing to do, for how he pleases his Prince. It's a fantasy that wakes his dick with a vengeance, and with Noctis' gleeful praise singing in his ears he finds himself hard again, wanting again, _begging_ again.

"Noct. Noct! _Please_, Noct. Please!"

And he spreads his legs wider, wide as he can go in full side split, unashamed in this moment to put the wreckage of himself fully on display so Noctis can see how badly he wants it, how much he needs it. Arches his back further to push into the freezing kiss of the swab, sobbing groans dripping from his lips with every pinch and twist Noctis deigns to inflict.

The heat in his blood twining with the chill on his nipple, driving him up the rise to orgasm with whips of fire and ice until he is teetering at the apex, his body straining, his eyes welling with tears and his mouth working but his tongue has gone clumsy and he can't even manage Noctis' name, only a moaning, whimpering rise and fall of base sound-

Noctis pulls his hand away.

The plaintive wail Ignis makes almost drowns out Noctis' swearing, his coaxing, "Specs. Specs, look at me. C'mon."

Hard to see him with the tears clouding Ignis' gaze, his lashes fluttering as reflex has him trying to shut his eyes against the intensity of his own need. He blinks and feels the wet streaks of sorrow drip down his cheeks. Why has Noctis stopped? Has Ignis done something wrong? He must have for Noctis to suddenly look like this, brows dipping and white teeth biting at his lower lip, shoulders hunched as he leans into Ignis' space, blue eyes so very dark with worry.

"Sorry, sorry, I know I'm a jerk. I'll finish, I swear I just- you'll leave these in, right?"

He tries to answer but his mouth still wont work, nothing for half-born syllables dripping off his tongue and he feels a horrible stab of panic because Noctis wants an answer, Noctis needs him to say 'yes,' but the animal Ignis has become knows only how to make soft, useless noises.

He can nod his head at least, sloppy motion by a drunk puppeteer. Sweat and tears drip off his face, land in a spatter of icy shrapnel across his bared chest, a fitting punishment for failing Noctis because he's told,

"I gotta hear it, Specs."

Frustration with his own wretched uselessness has his hands tightening into fists, nails biting into his palms, tendons aching at the punishing force that is yet nothing besides the pulsing agony of his body craving Noctis' touch, his heart craving Noctis' approval. He must answer. He must. And so he will.

And so he does. "Y-yeh-. Y-yye~~sssss."

Noctis' purring, "Hmmmm," vibrates though Ignis' nerves and leaves him lightheaded and tingling, his eyes threatening to roll up into his head. "And you're gonna let me help clean them, right?

Easier the second time. "Y-ye~~sss."

"_Good_."

'Good,' he said. 'Good,' and his deep blue eyes are now bright and warm as a summer night's sky, his lips are stretched in a wide grin. Beautiful, beautiful and approving and pleased because of Ignis, Ignis has pleased Noctis, can feel his heart soar with the knowledge, the rush of pleasure buzzing under his skin and through his brain and rattling him right

off

the edge.

He comes a second time looking at that smile, whimpering the word that has pleased Noctis so much, "Ye~~sss~ . . . y~~e~~sss . . ." as come oozes from his trapped cock to make the mess in his pants worse, the hot and wet and stickiness a mirror to what's left of his mind. His only grounding point is Noctis: the sight of Noctis' face, now wide-eyed and flushed deep scarlet; the touch of Noctis' hands, the one coming up to skim Ignis' cheek with trembling fingers as the other presses the swab back into place.

By now Ignis is so raw that the pleasure is barely such, a sensation more like icy talons piercing his chest to pluck at his nerves as Noctis rubs circles around Ignis' nipple, teases and tugs at the piercing, as he begins an endless litany of,

"Good. That's right, just like that. Come on. That's good, Specs. Good. A little more."

_No, no!_ shriek Ignis' instincts. Much more and there'll be no coming back, no returning to the Ignis that should be, calm and thoughtful, insightful and impartial. He is being eroded, destroyed. He weeps and turns his face to hide in the cradle of Noctis' palm but there is no escape. Not from Noctis' gentle touch and not from his brutal words, and not from Ignis' own self, who traitorously whimpers, "Yesss~" even now, greedy slut that he is.

And so like any greedy fool he meets his end, devoured from the inside by the flames of lust that blaze through his brain, by the ice-touch torture of pleasure on his skin, by the sweet poison poured into his ears. He sinks into darkness and oblivion, tears still wet on his face.

~

Ignis stirs. Blinks, trying to get his eyes to focus. His head feels so heavy. His mouth is dry. Someone's pulling off his trousers.

He makes a clumsy grasp for them.

Resistance. From seeming far away, Noctis says, "It's okay. It's okay, Iggy, let me clean you up."

An idea that's entirely backward to Ignis, though he's too muzzy to articulate why. He tries to gather himself, shakes his head trying to clear it, squints against the fog blurring his gaze. Slow realization makes raises a fumbling hand to his face.

Before he can ask he's told, "I took them off. C'mon, let go." And when he doesn't, "Specs, c'mon. You're being a pain."

Since he hears that every time he insists Noctis eat vegetables it only makes him more determined, struggling against the sticky-sweet lethargy poisoning every limb and fogging his brain, yet leaving him all to aware that in his sloth he's neglecting his duties. He must get up. He must serve.

And yet. And yet. His attention is snagged on the barbed hook of Noctis' voice as he pleads, as he begs, "-were being so _good_, Specs! Don't you still want to be good? Be good for me, come _on!_" and the sheer desperation of it is enough to give Ignis pause.

"Yes! Yes, good, Specs. That's good." Hands in his hair, stroking it back from his face, petting down his neck, and he shudders under the heady combination of praise and caress. "Now can you let go of the pants?"

Let go?

He teeters on the brink, a lifetime of training urging him to cling to consciousness, to straighten up, stand up, get back to work but he feels himself slipping with every pass of Noctis' hands, and, really. It would make Noctis happy, right? To do what he so clearly wants.

It's not easy, each finger a wrench of effort, but each success gets him pretty words, the touch of Noctis' hands as he thumbs the curves of Ignis' eyebrows, strokes down Ignis' cheek, cups his chin, until Ignis' grip trousers and dignity and self is hanging by the weakest hook of fingers-

"C'mon, Specs, you can do it. You wanna be good, right? You don't- you don't want to be _bad_, do you?"

He lets go. Bad. _Bad_. The word circles his brain and leaves him as empty as his hands, Noctis pulling away sticky-cold trousers and leaving Ignis adrift in the chair that seems suspended in a world of fog, and he sinks down and down and _down_ because Noctis has _left_ and doesn't that mean Ignis has been _bad_, that he will be left to the dark and the cold until next Noctis choses to drift close and that could be years, it could be decades, and Ignis will _starve_ in that dark and-

"Shit. Iggy. Ignis, it's okay. It's okay, you did good."

"Noct," he groans, so desperate he dares to reach up, to brush shaking fingers against the hands on his face. He peers at him blearily, eyes still refusing to focus. He's so tired. Why is he so tired? "Why'm I so tired?"

Does Noctis answer? Ignis isn't sure, the words slipping through his ears to tumble out the other side. But Noctis is smiling. He can tell that much. Noctis is happy, and so it's alright for Ignis to let himself melt against the chair as Noctis moves in and out of sight, it's alright for him to savour the stroke of fingers and the happy tones of Noctis' voice, like the ringing of silver bells.

Then there's warm hands on his thighs, pushing them apart, and a warm, wet cloth scrubbing at his softened cock, his balls. He groans, shuts his eyes, and tries not to squirm even as it's too sensitive, too intimate, but despite his efforts his hips shimmy back on the seat.

"Bad," he's told, and feels his heart seize in horror once more-

He _yelps_ at the sting in his left thigh, the _snap!_ from garter of his shirt stay's elastic leaving a hot line across his skin. Thoroughly chastened he subsides into obedient stillness even when the cloth curls around his ballsack and squeezes, even when it dips lower between his legs and he has to cant his hips to feel the wet-rough of it sliding across skin that's been hidden, _private_ until now.

"Good."

He sags in relief against the chair back.

Shirt stays are unclipped, and then both shirt and garters are pulled away. Socks and sock garters vanish as well, and Ignis opens his eyes to find himself naked and growing cold, sprawled on the dinning room chair, Noctis at his feet and smiling up at him while holding up a pair of black sweatpants.

"Gladio left these in the guest room. Should be big enough to fit two of you. Think you can get them on?"

He frowns and shivers, folding his arms around his chest. "Where's the washcloth?"

"Back in the bathroom. Why, you still feel sticky?"

"No, I just-" He presses a hand to his face. When did Noctis have time get up to put the cloth back? Wasn't it only moments ago Ignis was being cleaned by an eager touch? And where have all of Ignis' clothes gone? They aren't on the floor with Noctis. . .

"You've been drifting in an out."

Drifting. Yes. He is floating in Noctis' wake, drawn along by his powerful current.

Noctis hums. "You're getting goosebumps. C'mon, let's get you dressed and then onto the couch. You're probably hungry, right? I'll feed you."

That last bit snags Ignis' attention like seaweed tangled at his ankle. The memory of food, of the chicken wraps left to bake, of Noctis having to get up and see to the oven himself. His training whispers, 'lazy,' and prods at him to sit up, even as the memory of Noctis' command to 'let go' weighs him down. Lost, he mutters, "Shouldn't I- shouldn't I be the one feeding-"

"You _should_ be doing what I _say_," Noctis interrupts sternly, grabbing one of Ignis' ankles and giving it a good shake. Then, when he has Ignis' attention, he smiles with the pretty, coaxing curve of lips from childhood and says, "C'mon, Specs. You'll be good for me, right?"

"Yes," is the automatic answer.

The correct answer, because it makes Noctis' smile widen, makes him skim his hand up Ignis' shin to pet the tender skin at the back of his knee. "Great. _Good_. So, pants?"

It's so easy to let himself be led when it's Noctis helping him into Gladio's baggy sweatpants, hands skimming the bare skin of Ignis legs as he pulls them up, lingering on Ignis' hips, tying the drawstring for him. Noctis draping a similarly oversized t-shirt over Ignis' head, petting the curve of Ignis' ribs as he struggles to get his arms through the sleeves. Noctis, taking him by the hand and helping him over to the couch, pushing him down to sit, stroking his hair, his face.

He's tucked into the corner seat, then bundled in the dark woollen throw, the grey flannel pattern dizzying as it wraps around him like a net, binding his arms to his side seeming by design, because Noctis tells him "Stay," when he tries to free them.

He's happy to comply. The tight cocoon makes him feel anchored for the first time since he's woken, the wool soft as a cloud, warm as summer sun, and soaked with the scent of Noctis. He burrows into it further, drawing up his legs and tucking them under him, until he's a sooty hashmarked lump on Noctis' couch, blinking sleepily in the dim light. The world seems as soft as the woollen throw, all the edges blurred, all the sounds muted.

He blinks again, and Noctis has coalesced out of shadow, a plate in one hand, a mug in the other. "Got food," he says, holding out the dish piled high with the wraps, baked golden and oozing cheese in strings the colours of pale wheat and saffron. "Got drink." He holds up the mug, white porcelain and white steam and black, black coffee.

Ignis groans with inarticulate desire, the sound squeezed out of him by his cramping stomach, and worse, he can feel saliva filling his mouth. His cheeks heat at his lack of control, yet it seems to please Noctis.

And then Ignis is fed, Noctis sitting on the couch and tearing off pieces of cheese and meat, blowing on each bite as the grease oozes down his fingers in shiny streaks, until it cools enough for him to push it past Ignis' lips.

Messy. Ignis licks the grease off Noctis' fingers to keep it from dripping on the couch.

"Fu~~ck," hisses Noctis, pushing his fingers deeper into Ignis mouth.

To get them better cleaned? Ignis licks and suckles obediently.

"Told you before that I want you to stay like this," Noctis mutters. He thrusts his fingers in, and in, out, then even deeper than before. "Someone I can touch. Someone I can- _Damn_, Specs," he moans as Ignis swallows around those fingers, tongues the rough pads of Noct's sword calluses. Thorough, yes, but also unable to resist the gentle tease when it makes Noctis gasp and mutter curses.

When he pulls his fingers from Ignis' mouth, the wet string of saliva is a lurid contrast to this quiet moment. He snaps it with a flick and then buries his hands in Ignis' hair, rough caress so good on Ignis' scalp even as it forces him to tip his head back and bare his throat, stare at the ceiling so all he can see of Noctis is a brief flash of scarlet eyes.

"Gonna- gonna _make_ you stay like this. Somehow. Make you . . . ."

And then, much later, when Ignis' belly is full and Noctis has pulled him over sideways to lie with his head in Noct's lap-

"Gonna make you _want_ it, Specs."

"Yes," says Ignis, because that is the automatic answer. The correct answer.

The only answer possible.


End file.
